We're lost when we're alone
by mad-as-a-hatter1997
Summary: It's around 1 year since Sherlock's 'death' and he receives some upsetting news. How will he cope when he finds out that he is the cause of the incident. (Johnlock) The summary's bad but the story's better, NO FLAMES PLEASE but constructive criticism is appreciated :)


**A/N: ****Hiya, thanks for taking time to read my story. This is my first published piece in about 3 years, so sorry if it's not very good, my grammar sucks and probably always will so I can only apologise. Well I got some inspiration from this story from the song 'Shadows' by Westlife, the rest was just imagining reactions to the situation. Well thanks for reading if you did, it doesn't really matter, and please review just no flames please. (And for those reading my other fics I should hopefully have them up soon)**

It was late on a Saturday night when Sherlock finally acquired the energy to read the newspaper. Granted it was not something that he did on a daily basis, at the moment his mind was consumed with two subjects; breaking up Moriarty's web of secrets and how his blogger, his John, was faring with Sherlock's 'suicide'.

The main headline was as always a meaningless story about politics and tax rises, things that Sherlock normally paid no heed to as they had no real impact on him, there was one piece of text that caught his eye though, a small story in the bottom-left page corner entitled '39 Year Old Found Dead in London Flat'. As Sherlock read the newspaper's version of events, his blood ran cold and his hands started to shake, 'The 39 year old man, recently confirmed to be a Dr John Watson, was discovered dead in his flat on Baker Street at approximately 9pm on Friday. At first police suggested that the incident might have been murder, as Dr Watson had been acquainted with the late great Sherlock Holmes, however - judging from recent reports released by Scotland Yard – the blame for this death lies squarely with Dr Watson himself as he took his own life by means of a bullet to the head. Police deem this incident due to his diagnosed post traumatic stress disorder and have revealed no more on this matter.'

Sherlock was, at this point, not entirely unaware of his surroundings so could still hear the somewhat shrill beeping of his phone as he gazed at a story that could only be described as soul destroying. Once he regained full use of his faculties he realised that the incessant beep had not stopped and the calls seemed to be faster in appearing on his screen. Having discovered that it was his brother trying to phone him, Sherlock nearly ignored the call another time before realising that he could get some of the answers he needed, after all, Mycroft knew everything that happened to them. He answered. "Mycroft, why did you not inform me of the incident regarding John? You had told me that you would update me on his status if and _when _it altered even slightly, to have to find out from a copy of The Daily Times of all things. I could have gone back, I could have saved him. I don't understand." Sherlock's voice remained a calm as usual but there was an underlying tremor to his words, Mycroft on the other hand replied in the smooth tone he always used when addressing the younger Holmes brother.  
"What would have happened if I told you? Would you have gone back to Baker Street, taken John in your arms and declared for all to hear that you would never leave again? That would have caused both Dr Watson and yourself considerable pain; I was trying to save you from suffering more. Your actions might have had an impact on John, but who's to say his mind had not already come undone? I had been observing his behavioural patterns since the day you left and noticed that he had begun to hallucinate, your return would have seemed to him like just another everyday vision. Unreal."  
"But...how did you decide this? How is it even your call to _make_ Mycroft? You can't suddenly decide what's best for me when I already knew that the only thing I wanted in the future was to go home, to 221B. To _my _John. How could you possibly think that denying me the truth could have made me feel better about learning this?" Sherlock's voice grew in volume but seemed to die out as he finished his speech with the words "I loved...love him, Mycroft. What do I do without him?" This question was asked with a sob accompanying it, indicating to the older Holmes that perhaps he had actually made a mistake in not contacting his brother sooner. Mycroft was aware just how inexperienced Sherlock was to such strong emotions and had been frightened of the idea that Sherlock may have responded to the news by falling back into his old habits. In reality, Sherlock had curled his body in on itself and began crying into his knees. No tears managed to escape, simply great heaving sobs as his body emptied itself of the crushing grief, Mycroft's heart broke to hear this and he knew that the news he had yet to reveal could make or break his younger brother now. He fell back to using the nickname he had given Sherlock when they were little, "Locky...he left two notes. And one is specifically addressed to you."

Sherlock's head snapped up at the news and he practically begged Mycroft to allow him to read it. Mycroft agreed that Sherlock should have it as they were John's parting words to him, but under the condition that Mycroft had to be in the immediate vicinity as he was best equipped to deal with Sherlock's reaction to such complex emotions. Sherlock felt that the one place he could read the note was on the roof of St Bart's, the place where both Sherlock and John's happiness had come to an end.

The next day, the two brothers met on the roof as evening fell over the city, due to the street lamps there was still enough light to read the neatly written letter. It began as all typical letters do:

Dear Sherlock,  
To be honest, I don't even know why I am writing this. I should have come to terms with your being gone months ago, yet I still believed that you were alive, that there was some way for you to come back to me. I understand now that such belief only leads to further pain in the future, miracles do not exist and I know now that there is only one way I can see you again.

From our cases, I know how these notes are supposed to be written, I'm supposed to apologise for what I am about to do and for leaving people behind to grieve for my loss. But the truth is, since you left me, I can't feel empathy the way I used to, I sit on the couch day by day and watch as life slowly passes me by. But I can't catch up with lost time without you there to guide me; you were the light in the darkness that was my life, you were the person who always understood what went on in my head even when I didn't. You were the Sherlock to my John.

I look back on what happened and can no longer focus on the intricate points of our relationship; all I ever see is you jumping off a building and me not being there to catch you. The only reminders of, what was, our day-to-day life is the shadows of you. I see them everywhere, when I come downstairs in the morning you're there making tea for once in your life, when I walk around the neighbourhood I see you trying to drag me along in front and I smile, like everything's okay. Except it's not. Because they are not you, I'm reminded of this fact every time I try to reach out to you, my fingers falling through your cheek and turning what was meant to be a simple gesture into a lesson on how to experience pain.

I'm not going to tell you that I have nothing since you left, people have offered to help: Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Donovan, hell Mycroft's even paying my rent. I have the support I need and I know that I could help myself if I wanted to. But, truthfully, I don't want to. I want to be wherever you are, all the help in the world means nothing if I can't have you. So that is why I am doing this, that is why I must leave.

I'm sorry, but I'm lost without my detective.  
Your love,  
Your blogger,  
John Watson

Sherlock was at a complete loss for words, so for once he acted instinctively. Throwing his arms around his brother he began to cry, staining his brother's suit with tears but neither man seemed to mind. "Why Mykey, why would he do this? I can't have been worth enough to him to take his life. Mykey...help me, i-it hurts. I can't feel anything but agonising pain. Please..." To Mycroft, at this moment in time, his brother seemed to be transforming back into his younger self, the child who used to cry to Mycroft when his experiments failed, the one who looked for the comfort that Mycroft provided for him as best a teenage boy can.  
"Shh Locky, it's okay. I'm here, I'm right here. Okay, shh little brother, breathe deep breaths, in and out just in and out. You'll be okay, you will be fine." Sherlock's lip trembled as his brother held him against his body, protecting Sherlock from all that the outside world could use to hurt him.  
"I can't do this, I can't be here when he isn't, all he wanted was to be with me. It's my fault!" Sherlock shouted at the sky, causing Mycroft to look sharply at him.  
"Now Sherlock Nicholas Holmes you listen to me, none of this is your fault and if I hear you say so again then I will not be pleased. What would John want you to do if he realised you were still alive? He would want you to keep on living, as he tried to do. I know it hurts now, but wounds heal, it's what they do." Sherlock looked at his brother through red, bloodshot eyes.  
"But...but what if I can't find a way to live through it? What if the pain never gets better? What happens then?"  
"Then you find me. I will always be here to save you from whatever demon plagues you next, just promise me that you will not let this trial destroy you; I know that you are strong enough to get through this. You don't need to become self destructive again, you have me here to lean on." Sherlock sniffled and brushed a hand through his hair. "Now I will wait at the door if you want a small bit of time alone to collect your thoughts, but...please Sherlock, come with me." Mycroft walked towards the door leading into St Bart's as Sherlock walked to look over the edge of the building he had _supposedly_ lost his life on.

The first thing he did was to look towards the ground; he remembered the feeling of simply falling through air. Like Moriarty said "falling is like flying but with a more permanent destination". Then, he looked at the sky, he imagined John up there watching him wondering what Sherlock would do next. Sherlock imagined what it would be like if the situation was reversed, if John was stood there in his place with Sherlock watching from above. He contemplated what he would wish for John to do, would he want John to keep fighting it, to try and have a life after Sherlock? Or would he want John to go through with what he did, so that they could be together even after death? And he decided to do as Mycroft had asked, to go with him, he could only hope that Mycroft's words to him were true. That time would heal his wounds even if he could never feel whole again.

As Sherlock walked away from the edge he wondered 'a detective without his blogger or a blogger without his detective, who is more lost?'


End file.
